


And So It Goes, And So It Goes, And So Will You Soon, I Suppose.

by bigbidumbass



Category: 1917 (Movie 2019)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Soulmates, Angst, M/M, So much angst, i cried writing this i am so sorry
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-06
Updated: 2020-04-06
Packaged: 2021-03-02 01:14:41
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,588
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23506687
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bigbidumbass/pseuds/bigbidumbass
Summary: Soulmates AU where matching marks appear on soulmates, but the war still happens.Will doesn’t know who his match is.But deep within, a part of him knows exactly who he wants it to be.And that part of himself scares him more than anything.
Relationships: Tom Blake/William Schofield
Comments: 7
Kudos: 51





	And So It Goes, And So It Goes, And So Will You Soon, I Suppose.

Will almost hadn’t noticed when the mark had appeared on his arm. The sensation of it hadn’t burned or tingled as he’d imagined. Instead, it had felt like the warm grasp of a hand, like someone was brushing their thumb against his wrist. 

As he felt it coming on, exhausted, not thinking, he lifted up the sleeve to examine the feeling. Then, taking a look at it, he slowly realised what it was and quickly shoved the sleeve back into place, trying to appear casual.

_Why here? Why now?_

His cheeks were going red, but he brushed that fact aside as he looked around to see if anyone around him had noticed. Thankfully, no one had. Or, at least, not that he could tell. The trenches had no privacy, a well-known fact to every soldier, and there was almost always at least one pair of eyes on him. That didn’t mean they necessarily cared about what he was doing, but _still,_ the thought of someone watching him had Will grimacing.

He debated on whether or not to look at it again—he was itching to examine it, he hadn’t gotten a proper look the first time, and he wanted to view what it really was. Was it worth the risk of seeing? 

It was hard to process it was there, and Will was a bit stunned he’d gotten a mark at all. Really, he’d always assumed that he’d end up like so many others, ones who never got it. What had he done to deserve it over anyone else?

He decided to look again. Pulling his sleeve up, he gazed at the mark properly for a moment before promptly slipping the fabric over it. It was small, an image of a bird. Tiny wings that almost looked as if they were flitting back and forth. 

Taking in a sharp breath, he found a place to sit, inhaling the crisp, bitter air into his lungs. He pushed away the rising feeling of panic that had been boiling its way into his chest.

He didn’t know who his match was. But, deep down, a part of him sure as hell knew who he wanted it to be. And that part of him scared him more than anything.

* * *

For the rest of the day, the mark became Will’s little secret, burning on his wrist, threatening to reveal him to the world. Inside it, a question that he desperately yearned for an answer to, an answer that simultaneously sent anxiety down his spine. Because, really, he knew who he loved, but would the mark confirm it? Did Blake feel the same? If he did, what then? What if someone found out?

Either situation would be a living hell. Forever living without Blake’s affections seemed unbearable, but losing him...

Will pushed the thoughts aside, shoved them into a corner of his mind, suppressed by even breathing and intense focus on other things, like the grass. The sky. The color of the leaves on the trees.

But he couldn’t live in that space forever, not when Tom came up to greet him that night. Seeing him was torture—Will felt as if he were unable to get the air from his lips to his lungs, not when he was so close to knowing what that mark really meant. 

He knew that as soon as he saw Tom’s wrist, as soon as he identified whether or not Tom bore the same one as he did, he’d be forced to live with one of two scenarios, neither of which he knew how to accept. Still, Will couldn’t stop himself from looking, almost automatically—his eyes met Tom’s for a brief, paralyzing moment before they fell to his wrist.

It was blank. Empty.

Will could breathe again, and he emptied his breath in a sigh of disappointment and relief, the two sensations burying themselves in his chest. A blurred mixture, suffocating and soothing.

“You all right?” Tom asked, taking notice of Will’s face. Will took a moment to regain control of himself.

“Just tired,” he lied, and Tom grinned at him, the sight of it sending an aching pain into Will as if it were a dagger instead of a smile.

“Alright then, keep your secrets,” Tom replied, clapping his back before going on his way. Will watched his figure fade from view, feeling a part of himself break like the snap of a bone. A hollow, sharp pain in his chest, so real and raw that he almost looked down to see the wound. 

Instead, he rolled his sleeve back, staring at the little mark he was beginning to loathe.

 _Not him,_ he thought. _It’s not him._

And it was for the better, Will knew it was.

Because no matter how much pain was scraping at his insides now, he knew there would be an excruciating amount more if Tom had loved him too, and someone had found out, and… 

Will couldn’t even bear to finish the thought. No, this was for the better—it had to be. 

* * *

After it had become clear that Tom was not the one who matched his mark, Will cared a bit less if someone saw it. It wasn’t so uncommon for soldiers to have a mark. But he still kept it hidden from Tom, for reasons he couldn’t quite explain. 

Part of him told himself that it was to avoid Blake’s mockery, for if Tom saw it he would surely tease Will for eternity. The other part knew better. 

Months passed, but the mark stayed fresh in his mind. If not Blake, then who? Will didn’t care to know very much, not when his heart was so freshly attached to Tom.

He woke one morning to Sergeant Sanders waking Blake and took in a silent sigh, keeping his eyes closed. Perhaps, if he didn’t move, the world would freeze and he’d be able to stay in this moment—half-asleep, in a field with Blake. Instead, he heard Tom stir, heard him give a sleepy reply to the Sergeant. Heard Sanders tell Blake, “Pick a man. Bring your kit.”

Will wasn’t sure what all that was about, but he did know that Tom would choose him, in the same way that Tom knew he was awake and held out his hand. Will was careful not to let the mark show as he grasped it. 

Once he was in the tent with the general, once Erinmore had explained the situation, the mark had completely slipped into the back of his mind, replaced by a horrific reality. Will’s heartbeat was pounding steadily in his ears as he followed Blake through the trenches, the familiar sensation of dread slithering into his stomach as memories of the Somme flickered through his mind. 

He was panicking, trying to stop his hands from shaking. But he couldn’t stop the terror, couldn’t resist trying to get Blake to at least think through what they were doing. Blake, however, was stubborn, resistant, emotions running high and determination settled into his jaw.

 _God, we’re both going to be killed,_ Will thought to himself.

But he followed him anyway. Perhaps because 1600 men’s lives were currently at risk. Perhaps because he knew that no matter what he said, Blake would keep going. And perhaps because Will knew that he would rather die than send Blake up there alone.

So he followed. He followed until they reached no man’s land and then he took the lead.

“Age before beauty,” he told Tom. Hidden behind those words, his meaning was so much more.

* * *

When he pulled the wire out of his hand, Will didn't even remember the mark was there. 

So many other things were more important. Like the Devons. Like Tom. 

His body was shaking uncontrollably, maybe from the fear, maybe from the pain.

The wound burned like the gates of hell, and it was so much worse when it went through the decaying tissue of a German.

He tried to keep a hold on himself at that, tried not to fall apart in front of Tom, but, really, he was just barely managing to keep the small amount of food in his stomach down.

When he’d finally recovered a bit, he stood up. Got the hell away from that fucking corpse as fast as he possibly could. It was so eerie among the craters and death, the land where no man should walk so easily, deadly silent except for the sloshing of their footsteps. Will could practically hear himself trembling.

When the planes came, he ran. He ran as fast as he could, taking no time to think besides making sure that Tom was running too. He couldn’t even distinguish any coherent thoughts, just the compulsive need to hide from the ever-growing rumble of the planes nearing ahead. The need to make sure that Tom would be okay.

When they were gone, and the air was silent once more, Will took a deep breath. _In, out. Easy._

When they came upon the German front lines, he took in another. _In, out. Easy._

And when the rat hit the tripwire, he did his best to take one more. _In, out. Survive._

* * *

Will couldn’t breathe. 

He couldn’t breathe and he couldn’t see.

The lack of air burned in his lungs, the inhaled powder of rubble searing like fire.

Someone was shaking him, pulling him up.

_Tom._

Will coughed, desperately, trying to get dust out and air in.

“Stand up!” Tom was yelling, frightened.

Will tried and tried and tried again until he finally found himself on his feet.

He blindly followed Tom, his body doing its best to eject the filth in his lungs.

He was dry heaving, trying to keep up, but the combination of sobs and retching were uncontrollably wracking through his body until they finally ceased. Breaths were heavy in his lungs, weighted down, more effort than usual needed to keep them pushing through his chest. He still couldn’t see anything— the world had gone dark around him.

“You keep hold of me,” Tom instructed, and Will obeyed, frantically clutching at the air until his hand met the back of Tom’s coat. He couldn’t see, but he could feel Tom’s movements, and he clung on for dear life. 

“We need to keep moving!” Tom shouted, but Will was becoming hysterical, terrified by his loss of sight.

“I can’t see, I can’t see!” he said, staggering forward.

“Stop! Stop, stop, stop!” Tom exclaimed in front of him, and Will halted as fast as he could.

“It’s a mine shaft,” Tom panted, “Right, we’ll have to jump. Come on!”

Will could hear Blake jump in front of him, and he felt around for the walls. He did _not_ want to follow him, not while he couldn’t see.

“You’re going to have to jump!” Tom told him, but Will shook his head.

“Just jump!” Tom is yelling.

“I can’t, I can’t see!” Will called back.

“You need to trust me! Jump!” Tom shouted. Will could hear the terror in his voice. He jumped. 

For an agonizing moment, he didn’t think he was going to make it, as his leg swung into open air and he started to fall back, but Tom grabbed his arm and pulled him to solid ground. 

“Don’t let go of me! Don’t let go!” Tom cried sharply, and Will gripped his arm.

“Light! There’s light!” Tom exclaimed, and Will felt a twinge of relief. He was dragging his body as fast as he could, but it was buckling underneath him, giving up, until they were finally out, _finally_ free, and he collapsed.

“Stop, stop,” he gasped, pushing himself back to his feet, “Just let me stand.”

He rested his head against wood, trying to recover, trying to breathe, trying to reassure himself that he was alright.

“Dirty bastards!” Tom huffed next to him. 

Scho was exhausted, his entire body hurt, and he was angry—if Blake wasn’t his soulmate, then why had he been chosen to go with the boy on this? Why not someone else, why not _Tom’s_ soulmate? 

It was selfish of Will to think these kinds of things, it was knotted so bitterly and darkly inside of him, but Will hardly cared anymore. Why was Will the one suffering, with straining breath and aching bones, if it were to amount to nothing? Why was he the one who couldn’t tell Tom no, no matter how he tried? It didn’t make sense that Tom always clung to him like ivy, if Will was not to have a life with him. It didn’t make sense that it wasn’t him.

Nothing made sense, anymore _._

* * *

Something felt wrong about the farmhouse. Will couldn't place it, but the pit of dread in his stomach was telling him so. He tried to relax, but the tension won’t leave his shoulders, his chest. Something was tainted here, in these deserted walls, these shattered bits of glass.

_They shouldn’t be here._

But did they really have a choice? 

No. So Scho pressed on.

He loosened up a bit when Blake rejoined him, trying to mask his avidity to leave.

“Did you find any food,” Blake asked, and Will shook his head. 

“No,” he replied, and a shiver ran down his back as he looked around. “I don’t like this place.”

Even outside, there was obscurity to this place, an awful sort of darkness.

He stepped forward cautiously, heading towards the barn. An empty milk urn, an overturned stool, and-

He kicked the lid off the bucket, hardly believing his eyes. _Milk. Fresh milk._

He dipped his fingers in and tasted it, waiting for the foul giveaway of curdling. It didn’t come.

Instead, it was sweet. Creamy. Ambrosial, nearly, with how long he’d eaten the repulsive army food.

Will couldn’t help but let out a small gasp, immediately dropping to his knees. He lowered his hand into the bucket and lifted it to his mouth, savoring the sweet liquid. Blake came up behind him, and Will turned to look at him a moment before reaching for his empty canteen.

“Map says we get over that ridge and it’s a straight shot to Ecoust,” Tom told him.

“Good,” Will replied, carefully filling the canteen with milk. _For later,_ he thought to himself.

As he screwed the lid back on, he heard the buzz of planes overhead and stood to look for them, following the sight out into the field. There were three planes, two English, one German, and Schofield watched as they flew through the air, gliding through the clouds. 

“Is that our friends again?” Blake questioned.

“Looks like it,” Will answered, his eyes fixed on the sky. “Dogfight.”

He turned to look back at Tom, who was leaning against the barn door. It hurt to see him, but Will looked at him anyway. 

“Who’s winning?” Tom asks, and Will squinted back up at the sky, trying to see the commotion better.

“Us, I think,” Will told him. “Two on one.”

Smoke suddenly filled the sky and, for some reason, Will felt his stomach lurch. The German plane was coming down.

“They got him!” Blake exclaimed. Will didn’t share his enthusiasm, quite—an unsettled feeling was sinking into his gut. 

He didn’t reply, choosing instead to fixate on the sinking plane as it disappeared out of view. He walked forward, tried to get a better view of it, but realised with a jolt of his stomach

_It was flying right towards them._

Will was frozen for a moment, paralyzed in fear. His mind was screaming at his feet to move, _move_ , **_move,_ **but they only slowly shuffled back, stumbling, scrabbling away until he finally regained the ability to run, and run he did. 

He ran fast, as fast as he could, but wasn’t fast enough, the plane was coming in much faster. 

_No, no, no,_ he thought, and if the plane hit him, it would hit Blake too.

When he heard the thunderous roar of the plane’s engine just a hair behind him, deafening, he threw himself to the ground in front of him, bracing himself for its impact.

And finally, the plane came to a halt, on fire behind him. He could feel the wave of heat it was giving off.

 _Jesus,_ he thought, but the sentiment was half drowned out by sudden screams.

_The pilot was still alive._

He and Blake shared a look, scrambling to their feet. Tom didn’t hesitate, not even for a moment—he simply ran straight to the plane, attempting to lift the pilot out.

 _He’s insane,_ Will thought to himself, and then immediately joined his efforts.

The German was heavy and on fire. When the resistance of the plane finally gave, and they wrenched the man free, they lifted him out onto the fields.

The pilot was muttering words Will couldn’t understand, and he felt a strange sense of pity for the German as he looked at his mangled legs, at the agonized look that burned in his eyes.

“We should put him out of his misery,” he told Blake.

“No,” Blake insisted, “Get him some water. He needs water.”

Schofield didn’t have it in him to argue, not today; he stood and rushed to the water pump.

He felt uncomfortably naked like this, not being able to see what was happening with Tom. He was eager to have this over with as quickly as possible. Behind him, he could hear Blake comforting the pilot, and he instinctively glanced back to make sure that Tom was alright.

He was. Will turned back to the pump, placing his helmet below it and pulling the lever. 

The water was a sickly yellow-orange, and he continued to move it through, hoping it would run clear. 

But he heard Blake give a yell behind him, and his blood ran cold as he turned toward Tom, forgetting the helmet and letting it slip from his hands. He hadn’t processed what he’d seen for a moment, not until the pilot had pulled the bloody knife out of Tom’s abdomen and he put it together.

His heart skipped a beat.

“No, no, no!” he yelled, automatically grabbing his rifle. He fired once, cocked the gun, and fired again. The German fell dead. 

Tom was cursing, crying out in pain as he stripped his uniform down to look at the wound, and Will could only watch him helplessly, praying silently to a God he wasn’t sure was there.

 _This isn’t real. It can’t be real_ , he was telling himself, but as Tom’s hand touched the wound and came up crimson, it was more real than anything Will had ever felt.

“Oh, God,” Tom said, sliding to the ground, “My God, no!”

Will rushed to his side, pulling out dressings as Tom continued to cry out. He was trying to keep himself calm, but his hands were shaking.

 _Get a hold of yourself. Treat the wound,_ he thought firmly, evening out his breaths. Tom was the priority, not his fear.

“We have to stop the bleeding,” he told Tom, pressing the dressings hard into the wound.

Tom screamed in pain, crying out. “Stop it, stop it!” he yelled, but Will knew that he couldn’t.

 _Please, please, please,_ he thought, cradling Tom’s head into his hand. _Please, no. Not him._

“It’s going to be alright,” he said to Tom gently, then repeated it, as if the emphasis would make it true. “You’re going to be alright.”

He had to get him help.

Glancing down at the wound, he looked back up at Tom. “We’re going to stand up,” he instructed. “Alright?

“Yes, yes,” Tom replied, and Will stood over him without a second thought, gripping the sleeves of his coat and hoisting him up.

But Tom couldn’t support his weight—the wound was too severe. He grunted in agony, in effort, then cried, “No, I can’t, I can’t,” and the two of them came crashing back down to the ground.

Will was frantic now, desperate. “We have to get to an aid post,” he insisted.

“I can’t,” Blake told him, shaking his head weakly.

“I’ll carry you. It isn’t very far,” Will bargained, keeping Blake’s hand pressed over his own wound.

“Just bring a doctor here,” Tom pleaded, but Will knew that wasn’t an option. 

“We can’t, we have to go together,” he said.

Blake shook his head wordlessly, panting. He’d gone desperately pale, a greyish shade that frightened Will to an unspeakable level.

_No. No._

“We’re going to get up,” Will said desperately, moving around behind Tom. “We’re going to get up!”

He positioned his arms under Tom, hoisted him up, half dragging him.

“Stop, please stop!” Tom pleaded, but Will kept moving, pulling him despite Blake’s howls of pain. Tom fought him, flailing against him, cursing at him, begging him to stop, and they fell once more.

Will was almost crazed now, he was so desperate. He placed his hand on the wound again, but the dressings were full, sodden. He chucked them away.

“We have to try to keep moving,” he said, pulling a fresh pair out of his bag.

“Let’s just sit… let me sit,” Blake requested, exhaustion bleeding into his words, into his face. 

“We can’t,” Will said quickly, pressing the new dressings over the injury. “We have to find the Second, remember? We have to find your brother.”

“You can start on without me. I’ll catch up,” Tom insisted. 

Will knew that wasn't what was going to happen.

“No. You can’t stay here,” he said firmly. “We have to move, alright? We have to move.”

He grabbed Tom’s hand and placed it over the dressings, holding pressure, then, wrapping his arm around Tom’s back, he swept a hand under Tom’s legs and tried to stand.

He pulled as hard as he could, screaming out in effort, but Blake didn’t make it more than a foot off the ground before they tumbled down. 

_Please._

“Your brother! We have to find your brother,” Will said urgently, a hand over the wound.

_Please!_

“You’ll recognize him,” Blake said in defeat. “He looks like me. And he’s a bit older.”

Will stared at him helplessly. _No, no, please, no,_ he thought, and grief was suffocating him now— he had to do something. But what? Shaking, he ripped his eyes away from Tom and looked around for help that he knew wasn't there.

Tom’s blood was pooling against his hand, the dressings essentially futile with how much they were helping. _No. This is a nightmare. It isn’t real,_ he thought. A lump was in his throat. He swallowed hard.

“What are they?” Blake asked, and Scho looked up at the question. “Are we being shelled?”

“They’re embers,” Will answered, the only thing he could do now. “The barn is on fire.”

There was silence as Will watched them, the orange particles floating through the air, then looked down at the ever-worsening gash on Tom’s abdomen.

“I’ve been hit,” Tom said in shock, trailing his fingers through the blood. “What was it?”

“You were stabbed,” Will replied softly, barely hiding his horror at the fact that Tom was already losing his memory.

Blake looked down in confusion, moving his hand toward the bleeding. His hand landed on Will’s, still holding the pressure over the wound.

“Am I dying?” Blake asked him, voice thick with the approach of crying, and Will’s breath hushed against his lips for a moment at the sheer pain of that question. Tears came, hot and stinging. Will blinked them back the best he could. 

“Yes,” he said, as much as he didn’t want to. “Yes, I think you are.”

Will held Tom as he cried, tried to stay calm for him despite how much fear and loss were eating him alive. 

Reaching for his tunic pocket, Tom pointed, and, seeing his intent, Scho reached inside.

“This?” he asked, retrieving a wallet, and Blake nodded. 

“Inside,” he told Will.

Will tried to ignore the blood on it, the blood similarly clung to his hands. It was a photograph. He held it up for Tom, who took it, grasping it against his chest. 

“Will you write my to my mum for me?” he asked Will.

Will gripped his arm. “I will.”

“Tell her I wasn’t scared,” Blake requested, and Scho nodded.

“Anything else?” he asked, knowing the least he could do was to bring comfort to Tom before he-

“I love them,” Blake answered. “I wish that… I wish…”

He was fading. Frightened, Will grasped hold of Blake’s hand. He looked back up at him, but not before his eyes had caught sight of a little black mark on Tom’s wrist. Will went still, dread lining his veins.

_No._

He looked again, against his will. A bird. With flitting wings. Just like his own.

_No!_

His grasp tightened around Tom, cradling him, and he was nearly biting his tongue now, trying to keep back the tears.

“Talk to me,” Blake said, “Tell me you know the way.”

Will clenched his jaw, trying his best to hold back his pain.

“I know the way. I’m going to head southeast until I hit Ecoust,” he told Tom.

Blake was silent, listening. Will continued,

“I’ll pass through the town and out to the east, all the way to Croisilles Wood.”

“It’ll be dark by then,” Blake told him softly.

“That won’t bother me,” Will responded. “I’ll find the Second, I’ll give them the message, and then I’ll find your brother. Just like you, a little older...

Tom wasn’t breathing.

Will stopped, looking back down at Tom’s overturned wrist. The mark faded before Will’s eyes.

Will looked at Tom again, unmoving, still cradling him.

There was a moment that he was so lost that he didn’t move. He simply stared down at Blake’s body, the smoke from the plane now burning against his nose. He could not possibly think why, if he were to lose Blake, the mark had been there. Why? _Why?_

But no answer came. Tom was still in his arms, gone, and Will was so desperately alone. He choked back a sob, grasped into his brain for a purpose. 

_Sixteen hundred men. Tom’s brother. Tell me you know the way._

Will’s jaw tightened. _I know the way,_ he thought, and gently set Tom down, knowing that the only way he’d be able to live with himself now was if he made it to the Devons.

He carefully went through Tom’s tunic, slipping out the message for the Second. He likewise grabbed the map, but it was ruined— soaked in blood and illegible. 

Sacredly, he took off Tom’s rings and then snapped his identity badge off its twine. He stored them in his pocket, safe. As he did, he caught a glimpse of his own wrist, and the grief set in as Will confirmed what he was afraid of: the mark on his wrist was gone as well.

 _Make it to the Second,_ he told himself. _Find Tom’s brother._

Picking up Tom’s photograph, he looked at it for a moment, then returned it to Tom’s chest. He didn’t want to leave him here. Tom deserved better than this, better in every way. But Will didn’t have many options.

He looked around and found a soft patch of grass. Still not what Tom deserved, but at least better. Better. He carefully hooked his arms under Tom’s and heaved him up, grief threatening to crush him. It was different now that he was gone, but not in any way easy.

Nothing is heavier than the dead body of someone you loved.

  
  
  



End file.
